A Little Bit
by TheNightimeSky
Summary: ."At least Johnny has his jeans jacket!" - She was his tormentor. She never showed any love; and it hurt more than hitting him. It sure ain't love, but then what is it?


**A/N: What do you know? Another one-shot. . .**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

* * *

_'. . ."Get that sweathirt off." He threw a towel at me. "Dry off and wait here. At least Johnny's got his jeans jacket."'_

_-page 60, "The Outsiders" _

_At least Johnny's got his jeans jacket. . . _

- - -

Dorothy Cade's dark eyes scanned the road before she crossed it quickly, and made her way down the old battered sidewalk, grumbling as she went.

Deep bitter anger had built up over the years, settling deep inside of her, and merging with her very being. A parasite, disease, and curse. Although she chose to turn a deaf ear on the disapproving whispers, the wide-spread rumors, and the frequent insults, she couldn't deny it. Everyone saw her as a wicked witch. A bitter old coot, who was sure to go to hell when her time came.

Of course, why should _she_ change at all? What did those good-for-nothing bastards know? She knew she was right to feel this way. Of course she was. What had _she _done to deserve this?

Jeremy was a good place to start. Her-good-for-nothing husband. Someone who she _stood _by, even when no one else would, and who never even said "thank-you". A good-for-nothing husband who couldn't hold down a job, and blamed _her _for his fucked up life.

She was _so_ careful. Always. Smart and steady; she was goingto rise above it all. Who could've predicted this? That she'd end up poor, hated, and unknown, blending into the background just like everyone else? Yes, it was _their _fault. Not hers. It wasn't her fault for her reputation, and it certainly wasn't _her _fault that the boy turn out to be such a disappointment.

A quick pulse of energy wafted through her. The boy.

. . .

_Her _boy. Johnathan.

Thinking of him made the anger flare up even more. The fact that he was just like his father - dumb, a loser, and destined for trouble. With his tired, haunting eyes, and the pinched, scraggly look about him, his horrible greasy hair - and the long, ugly scar that ran down his face. From a gang fight, no doubt.

What, with his worthless hoodlum friends, and how he had _let _them turn him into one of them. He didn't fight it, and he was nothing special. And so she ignored him. When he decided to try and make an effort, when he decided that he actually cared about what he was doing for _her _reputation, then she'd listen.

Maybe.

Dorothy pulled her coat closer to her middle and hugged herself, walking against the wind. She kept her eyes down so she wouldn't have to meet peoples' disgusted glares or superior smirks.

To hell with _all_ of them. She stopped caring what people thought a long time ago, she tried telling herself.

Her white blouse was now so filthy, it could've easily passed for another color, and her skirt was so thin and worn-out, it didn't do much more than keep her appearance suitable for the public. She brushed some of the straggly, oily hair from her face, and turned the corner, in the direction of her destination. The Goodwill store.

She was used to disappointment, and so she didn't even bother asking her husband to take her. And Johnathan had been gone for a day now. He'd be back, though. He always came _back. _He'd be off for days at a time, and only then would the fighting between Jeremy and herself slowly stop. Jeremy never had anything to lash out on physically without the boy, and he'd get bored. The boy would come stumbling back home after doing _God _knows what, and he'd slowly merge back into their daily life.

Jeremy wouldn't hit the boy as much, at first. A semi-forceful slap to the head or a shove. Then the boy would do _something _to make his father furious, and that was when Jeremy would nearly beat him senseless, sending the boy off again. Dorothy snorted to herself, ashamed for raising such a pushover. Why did Johnathan let his father _do_ that? Not that she particularly cared; they were both pathetic - but seeing him not fight back, or even let out a yelp of pain. . .it was just wrong.

She entered the store, breathing in the old smell of sweat and mold. She walked in, looking around.

"''Lo there, ma'am," a raspy voice said from beside her. An overweight man with thinning greasy gray hair sidled up to her. "Ya lookin' fer anythin' in partic'lar terday?"

She edged away, wrinkling her nose. "Hmm. Need _something _other than these rags to wear aroun'," she spat, which was close to what she had said to her husband yesterday.

His eyes trailed down her figure. "Yeah? Well, we gots a new shipment, uhm . . .yesterday, I reckon?"

She turned away without another word, rolling her eyes to herself. As if she'd take tips from _him. _Even though he was being perfectly polite to her. He seemed to be one of the only ones, she realized.

Dorothy took the piled clothes in her hands, turning them over, wrinkling her nose at them. Something dark caught her eye. She walked towards it slowly, and picked it up. It was thick and smooth; the material of jeans. A jacket. A dark blue denim jacket.

It was like new, and she slid her fingers down it. She held it out. A boys' jacket. She could never wear _this. _Sighing, she put it down, when a mother and her son came in.

Dorothy glanced at her, and took a good look at the boy. He was a nice-looking boy. Not particularly handsome, but he had a small smile on his lips, an air of happiness to him, and bright eyes. Quite unlike her own son's haunted look and bleak facial expressions.

She thought again of the jacket, and tried to imagine Johnathan with it. He didn't have a jacket. What a fine thing that would be for him - it'd make him look so sharp. Dorothy thought about it, how the jacket was probably close to his size. The more she thought about it, the more she thought about him with it.

What made other boys so much better than hers, anyway? Why, with decent clothing and a nerve about him, her Johnathan would be _just _as good as any other boy - maybe even better. She let her mind wander, before it was too late to even discontinue the daydream. A confident sophisticated version of her son - one with a future that was bright and clear. A son she could be proud of inside and out. . .

"Oh, look at this, Dan!" the mother exclaimed, picking up the jacket where Dorothy had placed it. "It'd be perfect for you when it starts getting chilly."

He looked at it, his light brown eyes taking it in. "Hmm? Sure Mama, that'd be fine."

"That's mine," Dorothy piped up, noticing the harsh tone to her voice. "I. . .uh, was reserving it."

The mother frowned. "It was right here - I found it first. You can't _reserve _anything."

"Naw, she was holdin' it right 'fore y'all came in, ma'am," the man with the gray-hair said. "Ya still want it, ma'am?" His gaze was trying to tell her something. It was stern and he nodded so shortly that only Dorothy saw it.

She felt a pit in her stomach. If she didn't get it now. . .

"Yes, I'll take it," she whispered, putting the money aside and cradling the jacket protectively. The mother pursed her lips, looking mightily disappointed. Dorothy hugged it tighter. It was hers.

- - -

She walked back home at a quick pace, feeling happier than she had in months.

She walked into the house, ignoring her husband's "where the hell have you been, woman?" and up to Jonathan's room. He'd be home soon, she thought, calculating the time in her head. Yes, he had been gone for at least two days already. . .

She lay the jacket on his cot, and she heard a noise at the door. She turned around to see her son in the doorway.

His dark eyes met hers. He looked thoroughly confused and wary.

"What. . .?" He tilted his head to see past her. She walked to the doorway, and he picked up the jacket. He frowned at it, as if not believing what he saw. He wrinkled the collar in his hands, holding it tightly in his long thin fingers, the nails bitten down to the quick.

"It's yours," she said gruffly. Now would be the time to tell him _why_ she got it. Anything. He was looking at her as if trying to see her for the first time, but he quickly averted his eyes back to the jacket when their eyes met.

He nodded. There was a long pause. She was waiting for the thank-you. The hug. The gratitude. Anything!

"Yeah? Why don't you wear it next time you decide to run away?" she snapped before she could stop herself. Why had she thought that this would change _anything? _Her life was still in the hell-hole, and they were still the same hopelessly dysfunctional family. But there was no more room for regret.

She felt the anger wash over her again. _Just like his father. No "thank-you". Nothing at all. _She was still alone. She turned away from him, and felt she needed to say something else. She turned to him, ignoring the bewilderedly hurt look on his face, and snarled,

"And clean your room. It's a mess, just like the rest of this god damn house!"

She slammed the door.

"Thank-you," he whispered to the empty room.

- - -

**Hmm. Did you like it? Can you please review? Even if you hated it. Really. **

**Hey! GUESS WHAT? "An Outsider Girl" has over a page of reviews! Sorry - I just wanted to thank everyone first-handedly. : )**

**I think it's a little boring, but I needed to write away my writer's block. Sorry. **

**Critique if you'd like - I haven't written anything in a while, and I was a little sloppy on this, I'm afraid. Oh, and by the way, I think it'd be fair to let y'all know - those who review my story; I ALWAYS try and return the favor by reviewing their stories as a thank-you. So, in a way, it helps both of us. . .Review? O.o **


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